draft 1
by notsodelicious
Summary: Just a random short draft on one evening in Carlisle's study


_**Here's a short little something I put together tonight whilst listening to a-ha's Crying in the Rain because I'm a romantic at heart. Nothing fancy nor elaborated, and I couldn't find a place for this piece in my stories. They're going to be updated soon by the way :)**_

* * *

Concentration was hard to get, and harder even to plunge back into once distracted.

As it happened, Carlisle was heavily distracted. It was not entirely his fault if Esme had decided that his office was the best place to read in — the presence of the huge bookshelf was, in this moment, utterly lost to him — and draw in.

Yes, because he most definitely did not feel the same way.

Being distracted would not have been so much of a bother if only Edward had had the idea to be out of earshot, and really _out_ at all. The doctor had tried to calm his nerves by repeatedly saying to his twenty-three years old self that his son had every right to be home if it suited him. Even when it did not suite Carlisle, who, by the way, started to think that it was becoming a very bad habit to wish his son out of his home.

The cause of such schizophrenic thoughts was sitting three feet away from him, and Carlisle swore that her scent had been made to torture him; he swore her skin had been made to tempt him, and he swore that her clothes were totally unnecessary.

Perhaps his own were too, then ? Of course they were, but he did not have the right to be disregarding of Edward's feelings.

« You know, if you do not _actually_ write, this paperwork is never going to be finished my dear » Esme said from her perch on the sofa, twirling her pencil, a sly smile on her lips.

Dear God, he knew that smile. It was the Devil's smile, and like most things Esme did, it was perfect. Perfect yet torturous, naturally. He sometimes wondered when this strange mix would turn into just perfection. He also wondered whether he truly wanted it to change.

At loss for anything to say, he simply smiled back; a small grin that was the Angel's smile.

That was when Esme decided that his halo was crooked, and that Angels and Demons might as well stop messing with their minds, because neither was white or black. Both were a turmoil of grays and purples, light and dark, formed into heavy doughs of paint, or bright streams of silver steams.

The threads in his shirt were purple too, she noticed. As it played out, hers were of a light green shade. Did he notice that too ?

From where he sat behind his desk, she could not make out the colour of the pants he was wearing. Her skirt was dyed in a light gray; and although most women would have considered the combination of greens and grays to be horrendous, to Esme it felt like the colours of an upcoming storm above the forest.

It was calming and peaceful, but deceivingly so. Much like them.

« Now my love, I can say the same about you. That sketch isn't going to draw itself alone. »

She heard the rattle of his chair as he pulled it further from the desk, standing up to put a book back with the others. His collection of favorite volumes was hidden behind old scriptures, as if it was a secret.

Carlisle never displayed his books, he hid them until a faithful hand found them, read them, and hid them again. To her, it was almost poetic: the way his fingers slid across their spines tenderly, sometimes unsure, sometimes aimless, sometimes firm. The way each book seemed to respond by leaning into his palm slightly, like a paper rose bud yearning for warmth and light.

In truth, it was more than poetic, it was erotic.

She thought it disturbing how literally everything about Carlisle was charged with eroticism. He himself said he was a passionate man, and she ached to discover how much. How could such a compassionate, serene man, become so ravenous ? That was her greatest wonder.

How could these eyes of his turn such a deep shade of black with a thirst so different from the one he knew so well ? How could he turn them back to amber after a charge of desire had coursed through his body ?

Perhaps she asked herself those questions because she knew not how to turn her back to orange yet.

« You never know, pencils have a life of their own. Yesterday, I lost two of mine separately, only to find them huddled together on your desk. »

Two things appeared to Carlisle's mind then: a) _she_ was never at loss for a clever response b) her accusatory tone was adorably softened by the playful gleam in her orange eyes.

In reality, even if such a color only came after an unfortunate tragedy, the doctor had to admit he found that it suited her pale skin tone admirably. She had not been in high spirits lately, so he delighted in seeing that little sparkle back.

« I am afraid it is my own doing, darling, I mistook them for mine. »

Both knew it was a lie, so Esme of course felt compelled to smile that Devil's smile again.

She stood up to round his desk, stopping by his side as she picked up his own collection of pencils, eyeing them critically. His arm swept behind her waist, his hands safely resting on her hipbone as he placed a kiss on her elbow.

« Clearly, you need glasses. »

He laughed heartily at that. His eyes twinkled with glee, and they seemed to shine brighter.

« You know I used to wear glasses? »

He had all her attention now. She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth tugging down in a doubtful pout.

« Did you ? »

« It was … fashionable. And it made me seem more human. »

« Why did you stop wearing them ? »

He had no answer to that, yet again.

« I would love to see you with glasses on. I think I had some when I was human. » she added.

« Aha! »

She giggled, pinching his chin between two fingers, whispering a soft _« Don't mock me »_ against his jaw, chastising him gently for his very theatrical exclamation.

« May be that's why you took a tumble down that tree ? » he murmured, his hand drifting downwards as he spoke, coming to rest behind her knee, caressing the soft skin beneath his fingers.

« Fate again » she sighed dramatically, with her own little hands sliding up and down his arms, ruffling the fabric.

« Do you think Fate would disapprove if you kissed me ? » he asked, hopeful.

Esme bent down — she enjoyed their situation because she was finally taller than him — and stroked her lips against his.

« I don't think she has a say in the matter, my love. »

Her voice was hushed, his own hoarse as he hummed against her sealed lips, his breath unlocking them, like the sun would wake two rose petals. Her lips were pale, and he coated them in due, watering them to rouse their true colours.

Soon enough, his efforts were rewarded as Esme's arms slid around his neck.

They were the two rose petals, but he was the sun and she was the little rose bud.

Carlisle thought it was very erotic, but he also thought that from this eroticism stemmed something oddly poetic.

The only difference between them and actual roses was that the flames of desire would have killed the latter, but only nurtured the former.

Lovers were like raindrops falling madly from Heaven, blissfully leaving their own cloud nine, beautifully rounded by pleasure, their flesh translucent, exposing the true nature of the world beneath them. And then, like Carlisle's lips on Esme's collarbone, they crashed in ecstasy, forming new nursing droplets.

That cycle of pleasure too, was very poetic.

« I love you » he breathed in her neck, nibbling at her ear lobe.

His fingers, like her pencils, had a life of their own. They had begun to brush against the sensitive flesh of her belly, place he had not yet had the chance to explore.

There was something incredible about a woman's tummy, in Carlisle's opinion. perhaps it was because it was from their womb that life was created, which was a more metaphysical approach; or perhaps it was simply because every being could remember being safely tucked away from the world in their mother's womb, before being contentedly tucked at their breast, finally ready to learn and explore.

Esme was a mother, and he longed to feel safe in her embrace, as her son once had. But he could not help but feel out of place, sometimes. He was confident he would overcome this strange feeling soon, but for now, he simply enjoyed breathing in her neck.

« I love you » her soul's response came as a refreshing torrent after crossing the desert, as Napoleon's army had once found the soothing waters of the Nile beneath the Egyptian heat.

He knew the Nile's waters to be treacherous, like Esme's lips who devoured his face and chest, destroying button after button slowly.

Like she had, he decided Angels and Demons were just fooling themselves.

* * *

 ** _I started this originally to be part of the 'Sweet Torture' series, but hey my writing too has a life of its own and I decided I did not have enough T-rated stuff so why not ?_**


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